


Pets at Home - Mr Snow

by Vgwd



Series: Pets at Home [1]
Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK)
Genre: F/M, Non-Canon Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 02:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vgwd/pseuds/Vgwd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the old ones arrive (series 4) a look at Mr Snow's activities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pets at Home - Mr Snow

Mr Snow likes to have a pet. He's always been a collector. His palace - lets call it what it is - has an enviable menagerie of exotic fauna. But he does like to keep a house pet as well as the caged beasts in the grounds. And he likes his house pet to be a remarkable creature. Not necessarily beautiful but remarkable. A talking point. An ice breaker. His current house human is definitely a talking point. She is nowhere near as beautiful as his previous one - Carlos the lithe lovely from Lima - nor as grimly repugnant as Thomasina, a particularly gruesome looking French Canadian that he had discovered on holiday in the cold North. This one, as yet unnamed, is of average looks. Neither thin nor fat, she is young but then everyone is young to one as old as he is. He must think of a decent name for her. He could get her a new collar, with a bell. She chafed against the first one he gave her but she's used to it now. This one (Perhaps Mittens?) This one delights him with her unusual, unpredictable behaviour, as when a cat learns to fetch a ball. It seems unnatural, but delightful none the less. This pet of his (Tinkerbell?) is nothing special to look at - thick ankles, but her soul! Oh, her soul shines brightly in the permanent shadow of his palace.  
  
She was on a gap year, she told him, when he forced her - commanded her to tell him her life story, She obeys him, she is finally obedient and her soul is only slightly dimmer for having learnt that particluar lesson. She was on a gap year, volunteering at a school arranged by her church; (she is deliciously Catholic) a group of young earnest people shipped over to Bolivia to build a school and teach the children useful skills - speaking English, maths, to offer your sufferings up to God. That one will come in handy, Mr Snow thinks. The school, small and basic had the misfortune to be attacked by Mr Snow and his friends one tuesday afternoon when they were all bored. He hadn't even planned to go, he had paperwork to do but at the last minute he'd joined the others on their little jaunt. And he was glad that he did. Most of the children escaped, they knew the routes into the forest, knew to hide from the monsters who lived on the hill. The staff by contrast had panicked, run away, been slaughtered in the brutal chaotic attack. The priests had been the first to run and the first to fall. Mr Snow felt disappointed by the clerics these days, in the old times they were so much more robust. They did not quiver so easily, their faith lasted longer. Not by much but this lot seemed to cast it off like an old coat. Mr Snow had found his pet (Petra?) in a room that was either a large cupboard or a small classroom. It had no windows and she had barricaded the door to protect herself and the six children she had with her. Her faith had burned on her face as she had tried to fight him off with a flimsy mop handle (cupboard then). He'd killed the children in front of her, even as she attacked him and he had intended to kill her as well but he was a little bored of the well trained Carlos and a change is as good as a rest.  
He's questioned her about her insane, pointless bravery and all she will say is "God helps those who help themselves". It's a maxim Mr Snow has lived by all his long life. He has helped himself a great deal over the centuries and now he has a palace in Bolivia and a television the size of a bed sheet. She had fought him the entire way back to his home, caused such a fuss he had to have her locked in a cell until she calmed down. It took longer than he'd anticipated, much longer. Sometimes he missed the old days, when women were easier to terrify; their minds easier to turn. Less satisfying perhaps, but quicker. This one clings to her sanity, tenuously sometimes but her mind hasn't broken yet. He wonders if it ever will. She'd spent a few dull weeks in a fugue state and when she'd come out of it she had a new understanding of the world she lived in. A world where monsters come from nowhere and steal you away drenched in the blood of the children you can't protect. But she didn't despair, which surprised Mr Snow. Catholics usually fell from grace quickly, their faith crumbling like old, damp brick.  
He keeps her in his suite now, she can be trusted not to fall on one of the antique swords he keeps (antique now, new when he bought then) or hang herself from the beams. He no longer keeps her tethered to the wall by her collar - it does give the wrong impression to visitors. And of course she's learnt not to displease him (Tabitha - is that a good name for a pet?). She learnt that lesson quickly, just as she learnt to keep her mouth shut in company. (She's chippy this one, sarcastic). He trained it out of her the old fashioned way, spare the rod and all that, when he introduced her to the others. He'd left his own name until last - dramatic effect, and she'd laughed. She'd actually laughed, a slightly demented laugh, and asked for an ice cream. A 99 to be exact. She learnt quickly to confine her comments to his suite of rooms. She rarely speaks in front of the others unless he commands it. She rarely ventures out of his rooms, just to be on the safe side. Carlos had laughed as well, he regrets it now of course, his new owner is less - considerate - of his feelings. And his bones.  
Now that (Mrs Pickles?) is docile, she sleeps in his bed. Mr Snow is surprised by this. Carlos had slept at the foot of the bed like a faithful hound. One of his previous pets had demanded a suite of his own and a retinue of servants. That one didn't last long. But this one sleeps alongside him. She is nothing if not pragmatic, if her bones are going to ache (and oh how Mr Snow enjoys making those fragile bones ache) then she might as well sleep in a comfortable bed. Well, she lies next to him, she rarely sleeps when he is around. She loathes the feel of his cold flesh on her skin. He can see the revulsion on her face when she looks at him. He likes the feel of her warm soft body, so infinitely breakable so easily damaged, against his own. And she still does not despair.  
She's come close, he knows,she's depressed because he has worked very hard to make her so which is why he doesn't medicate her. He often finds her curled up in the corners of the suite, hiding from the world and its' evils. He enjoys those moments with her, he likes to lead her to the bed and lie next to her, flicking through the channels on the tv until he finds what he is looking for. A news report with sufficient devastation which he mutes so that the pictures play silently while he tells one of his stories. The ones which have by turns made her cry silently, or even better, make her physically sick. His favourite, however, are the ones he tells her of the Nazarene. A grubby man in grubby clothes. A charlatan. A weak fool. A liar. A mountebank (he had to explain what that was). Stories designed to reduce her faith to ash and bone. These tales leave her frozen, catatonic, unresponsive to even his most exquisite torments.  
Mr Snow has picked her name, he's had it engraved onto a silver coloured disc. He brings her a new gift. A blue leather collar with the disc attached and a bell that tinkles as he fastens it around her neck. His finger brush her delicate crushable throat as he tightens it.  
"It's in case you get lost, my dear," he tells her. "We're moving house you see. I have business to do and I'm taking you with me. I don't want you to wander off and get adopted by someone else. That wouldn't do."  
He stands back to admire the collar.  
"Where are we going?"  
He smiles when she speaks, she does it so rarely.  
"To South Wales, my dear, Won't that be nice?"  



End file.
